Slayer: The Halo Chronicles Part I
by halostarwarsfreak13
Summary: The story of a stressed squad-leader, an obnoxious cook, a short-tempered medic, positioned at the most undesirable outpost on the face of the Earth, protecting man-kind from a malignant alien race but one fateful event will change their lives forever.
1. Ch 1: Would You Like Fries With That?

SLAYER  
The HALO Chronicles

PART I: HEADLONG HARBOR

Chapter 1

1st Lieutenant Alex Jefferson of the United Nations Space Command, partaker of the SPARTAN II Program stood clad in MJOLNIR Mark VI Armor on the top of a tall building, an astounding concrete pillar, and stared at his surrounding environment. The baking sun reflected off of his bright orange visor, making a brilliant flash of color. His new armor, a brilliant crimson-red, shined just as beautifully. The ocean splashed against the concrete harbor walls, surprisingly soothing to the ears. Off in the distance, the New Mombasa Space Elevator towered, a giant metal spear to the eyes, ascending into the heavens.  
Headlong Harbor was the most undesirable place that a UNSC soldier could be placed. There was virtually nothing a free spirit could even want to do. All Jefferson ever stared at were boats coming and going through the bustling industrial haven. The sky was so smoggy from all of the factories located from place to place around the inland beach area, that the sun was nearly blotted out from the sky, and what was once a radiant, glowing, white-hot, vision-piercing orb was now a tiny orange ball that barely shed sufficient light to make the area a little nicer to the eyes. Alas, to Jefferson and his squad's. But there had been reports of Covenant sightings in the area, so Jefferson and his two squad-mates had been sent there to eliminate them if they were ever sighted again. Jefferson was as miserable as he could ever be. He hadn't seen action in months.  
Sighing, he walked down a ramp and off of the roof of the building. As he reached the ground floor, he was greeted with a scream from his squad-mate, Charles "Cookie" McPeterson, which made Jefferson cringe. Cookie, a tall, strong soldier from the south clad in sage green MJOLNIR Mark VI Armor (Like Jefferson), was the only soldier in Jefferson's three man squad who could cook a decent meal, and who was also Jefferson's second in command.  
"Christ, Cookie! I told you not to do that anymore!"  
"Hey, I only wanted a little laugh," Cookie said in his monotonous southern accent. "And don't you dare say the lord's name in vain!"  
"For the record, Jesus Christ isn't my 'Lord.' I have no lord. I'm an atheist. I don't believe in that religious crap. Those really religious folks really creep me out, and bug me, quite frankly."  
"Well, he's my lord. And I don't like you calling my religion 'crap.'"  
"Excuse me, soldier?" Jefferson said, getting a little irritated. "I don't like that tone of yours."  
"Um, sorry, sir. I won't do it again."  
"Good. Now I need you to clean the new warthog for me."  
"What new warthog?"  
"The one we received last week."  
"Oh... that new warthog. See, about that. I was taking a test drive in it, and... I sort of... drove it off into the bay."  
"You what!? Drove it into the bay? What the hell were you thinking? And how the hell were you able to survive without drowning in that heavy armor!?"  
"I obviously jumped from it just before it hit the water! I'm not that stupid as to stay in the thing and wait for my imminent doom!"  
"When did I even give you the clearance to test drive it? That's for me to do and me alone. Besides, your driving skills rank below poor. It seems really that the only thing you can do is just cook... and shoot into blank space."  
"Well, it's not like I meant to drive off into the water."  
"Alright! You've made your point. No, I don't think you're stupid, but sometimes, I wonder. Anyway, I'm just gonna have to order another warthog. I want you to go get Jameson for me so he can fix..."  
"Sir, Jameson's dead."  
"He is!?"  
"Don't you remember? He got rabies and we had to shoot him to put him out of his misery. And then we ate him."  
"WE DID!?"  
"Nah, just kidding. We fed him to the dogs."  
"Dogs?"  
"Yeah. We fed him to the same dogs that gave him the rabies, but then we figured they gave him rabies, and they might get rabies again since they ate an infected body, so we shot them, too. We ate them, though."  
"Oh yeah! Those were pretty good."  
"Yeah, a bit tough I guess, but if you stew them long enough and put 'em with some good spices and sauces, man are they good."  
"Too bad the cat got blown to bits before we could try it." Jefferson sighed.  
"Why was it blown to bits?"  
"It was crapping in my ammo box."  
"Boy, only if I could've seen that..."  
"What was that?" Jefferson demanded an explanation.  
"Oh! Nothing!"  
"I grow tired of this pointless conversation. I'm gonna go see the Doc. See you later."  
Cookie went off, and Jefferson entered the main base building where the squad's medic, Andy Richards was working. Andy was more referred to as "the Doc" or just "Doc." He was a medium-tall muscular, yet skinny guy from California and a total geek to boot. He was clad in Silver-Black MJOLNIR Armor. He was mixing some chemicals when Jefferson burst in.  
"Hey, Doc. Can I ask you to..."  
"I told you not to just barge into my work station like that! This has probably been the 19th time, according to my calculations."  
"Hey, sorry! The door was just open! Y'know, you could at least make a door, or leave a "do not disturb" sign, or something-"  
"Well, what was it that you wanted? Were you going to use my equipment to make moonshine, or what?"  
"I told you, I don't drink alcohol anymore. Well, at least not while on duty. You should've seen me at Cortana's Christmas Eve party. Boy, I was all over her like a rabid-"  
"What is it!? I don't have time for your babble, Jefferson! And why would I want to know about your sexual fantasies. She's a friggin' hologram for Pete's sake..."  
"I just need you to check my order records for the two new soldiers and the weapons. Can you add an order for a gauss warthog as well? I like the rockets. Cookie drove the new LRV into the bay."  
"Man, that idiot's always up to trouble. I don't know why you put him as second in command instead of me-"  
"Are you questioning my decisions?"  
"No, sir, not at all. So let's get this straight. You want a shotgun, 2 rocket launchers, a sniper rifle with 27 spare clips, a gauss warthog, a scorpion tank, 6 SMGs, 14 magnums, 4 new recruits, and a long sword fighter. Would you like some fries with that?  
"I have no desire for your dry humor, Doc. And how the hell did you memorize all that without looking at the checklist?  
"I wrote it all over the walls right behind you. It's amazing what you can do with just five minutes and 2 sharpie pens. Now, if you're finished, I would like it if you would leave me in peace."

MEANWHILE, in an abandoned sky scraper...

A ten-foot-tall Sangheili clad in blue armor stood, looking down at the Spartans, pondering what they could be bickering about. The red Spartan went into a tall building, and the one clad in green went to the roof of the building where the red one had originally been standing on. He stepped back, and approached the two other Elites who were talking in their alien tongue.  
"Blarg Wort wort blarg! Wort wort wort wort wort wort!"  
"Blar Blarg blarg blarg..." Oh, wait. Let me translate in English for you...

"You idiots! Quiet! I am trying to conduct a plan on how to destroy the humans," It said. There, that's better!  
"But sir," another cut in, "all of your plans ALWAYS fail. And every time you say a new plan will be better than the last, it's only worse," He pointed out.  
"I don't care! I am the commander of this base!" The first Elite said.  
"Well, technically, you're not. The commander WAS the commander, but since he's dead, you think you can just assume that you're the official leader of our group. I say we should vote for our commander," The other one suggested.  
"Look, we're in the middle of a war here and I don't think an election is going to solve anything."  
"What we should do," yet another barged in, "is hold a competition to the death. It'll be like a tournament. Whoever wins is the new commander."  
"Yeah, but I don't think you've checked your loophole there. The there won't be anyone to command the base!"  
"Oh..."  
"Well it doesn't matter. I joined the army first; therefore I have seniority over you all.  
"You have 2 hours of seniority. And 30 minutes of that seniority was spent spraying Grunt methane into the commanders' suit.  
Another elite, a female, cut in. "Why do I not have a say in this matter?"  
"Because you are a female, and females are breeders. You are lucky you were even accepted into the Covenant military."  
"You sexist!"  
"Alright! We'll hold an election. Now, let's vote."  
"No! We can't vote yet. We have to set up all of the stuff! Like laws, bill of rights, the name for our country..."  
"We're trying to destroy a world, not start one!"  
"Quiet now! We're starting our personal voting campaigns!"  
"By the gods, your parents must have been shot in the head before you were born. I see no sense in what you're doi-"  
"SHUT UP!"


	2. Ch 2: Vote or Die

Chapter 2

The dull orange sun set upon the horizon and gave way to the crisp cool night, not a sound but the never-ceasing omnipresent trade winds that carried over from the ocean. The roaring waves pounded the solid concrete docks, creating a harsh yet surprisingly soothing sound. Sergeant Major "Cookie" McPeterson dropped down onto the roof of the tall building where Jefferson had originally been standing. He took off his helmet, which released a small breathy sound and a high-pitched whine. He grabbed a small pack from his back and opened it up. It was filled with a couple of ham sandwiches, an apple, a pressurized can of soda and freeze-dried ice cream for dessert.

"God damn. I hate freeze-dried ice cream." He gave a sorrowful sigh. "I suppose this is how I gots to live," he said to himself. "I hate this god forsaken place… I jus' wish I could go back to… to…" He took out a picture frame from the small container. The glass was smashed slightly and the picture had stains all over it. It was hardly something a normal person would want to keep. In the photograph was a younger-looking Charles McPeterson with a lovely young brunette woman huddled close together, holding up wine glasses towards the photographer. In the back, there was a sign that said, "Good luck, Charlie." He took it out of the tarnished steel frame. Cookie smiled a bit as a tear welled up in his eye and dove from it, splashing upon the crumpled picture, adding a new stain to the disgruntled photograph. "Savvanah… I miss ya darlin'…

"Mind if I join you?" Cookie jumped slightly and spun around as fast as he could to greet the visitor. It was Doc.

"Oh, no I don't mind, 'course, why don' you sit right down here." Cookie said, hiding the photo behind his back. The Doc came over to Cookie's side and dropped down next to him. He took out a package as well, identical to Cookie's. The contents were no different. A sandwich, an apple, soda, and freeze-dried ice cream. Cookie began eating his sandwich, crying a bit as he took a large bite. Doc looked over at him. He saw the small, crumpled picture huddled over on Cookie's other side.

"What's that?"

"Oh… er… nothin'… nothin' at all. Go on, eat yur sandwich."

"C'mon, you can tell me. I took plenty of exercises in emotional consulting… or was that just the field trip to the mental hospital…"

"Look, I don't really want to talk about it…"

"Are you sure?" Cookie sighed and gazed at what was once the orange sun, its glowing majesty barely shining on the water anymore, no longer giving of its radiant heat.

"Here…" Cookie passed the crumpled photograph to the Doc.

"Who's that?"

"That's my… my wife… Savvanah Davies McPeterson. We got married not even half a week before I got drafted. I loved her so much…"

"She's beautiful. What happened, didn't you two stay in contact?" Another barrage of tears began to form in Cookie's eyes.

"Well… ya see, 'bout two or three weeks after I was drafted, I received word that… Savvanah had died in a plane crash. She was on her way to visit me too! And in mid-air, her plane was caught in some weird-ass storm that brewed up 'round south of the Atlantic. I never heard from her since…" Doc patted Cookie on the shoulder.

"Y'know, it's not all bad, maybe it's just a sign that you weren't meant for each other or something."

"Maybe. Do ya gots someone back home that ya ever loved?"

"Well, no, I don't. See, my parents came from England not even a week before I was born. And when I was born, they took me all sorts of places, to different countries and what amazing places they were. They were extremely wealthy, so they could afford it. But one day, we were out to dinner and my parents were approached a few men in the middle of a drug deal. Afraid my parents would tell the U.N. Police Force, they shot and killed my parents with me watching behind a trash-can. The police found their bodies and recognized them, but couldn't find me and left me for dead, those bastards. I grew up on the streets, no joke, but I suppose that's why I like to be alone most of the time."

"That sucks, I never knew that about you."

"It's okay, besides, I'm in the army, and now, at least I have some friends, like you and Jefferson."

"Thanks man," Cookie said as the shook hands.

"Sooooo… your name's… Charlie?"

"Yeah, and?"

"No, I just thought it was funny cause…"

"What's so funny 'bout Charlie?"

"Um… n-nothing, nothing at all!"

"That's what I thought."

AT THE ALIEN BASE…

Five Sangheili warriors stood huddled at the center of their base, devising a horrible, devastating plan to destroy the humans once and for all!

"Can we get on with this damn election, Phaetreor?" The tallest Sangheili growled anxiously.

"Not yet, Oris! We still have to select the candidates for Commander of the base! Now, who will be running for command?" The Elite, Phaetreor said. Only one of the five Elites raised their hand. It was Oris, the tallest of the squad.

"Just you? Please, if I weren't a female, I could run for command, and I would, by far, be the best Commander, maybe even better than you two bastards." The female, Reystema laughed. "There is nothing good about you that would make you a good Commander, why the hell are you even bothering to run?"

"Watch it, breeder. You're even lucky you're a Special Operations Sub-Commander let alone a soldier. No one would vote for you even if you were liable to run for command!" Oris laughed.

"Well… we won't know that until it happens, yes?"

"What are you saying?"

"Oris, you're as dumb as an Unggoy! How about you allow me to run for command, and we'll then see who is the better leader." Oris guffawed.

"Very well, breeder, I'll take you up on your little "bet". Just because you are a Special Operations unit does not make me the better candidate."

"We'll just see about that," Reystema sneered. Phaetreor raised his hand.

"We shall now hear the candidates' campaign speeches!" he bellowed. A podium was set up against the far wall of the building. "Up first, we have Sangheili Minor N'lsrath Oris'ee of the 208th Sangheili Minor Combat Regiment, Unit 9,302." The muscular warrior stood up to the podium, towering high over his fellow soldiers. "If you will, Sangheili Minor Oris, please give us your speech."

"What? Nobody said anything about needing to prepare a Campaign Speech! Call the election off!" Oris cried, panicking.

"We can't call it off! Just… say what you will do as commander!"

"God I hate this Army… okay… ahem… as commander of Earth Outpost… how many captured outposts is this?"

"One, sir," Phaetreor sighed.

"Um… right then… as commander of Earth Outpost No. 1, I promise to enforce strict laws, keep the peace, rule with an iron fist, yadda yadda yadda and all that good stuff. I also promise that if we ever have another freaking election, I swear I will shove my Energy Sword so far up all of your asses, your next sons will inherit the blinding pain!" The crowd of three Elites clapped as Oris stepped down from the podium.

"Up next," Phaetreor began, "we have Sangheili Major Domo 1st Class Reystema Yayama'ee of the 12th Special Operations Corps., Sub-Commander of the High Special Operations Legion and Fourth in line of the esteemed Reystema clan on the High Council. Please step up to the podium and present your speech."

Reystema stepped to the podium. "As commander of this base…"

"Excellent speech, Reystema," Phaetreor said.

"But… I didn't even finish."

"Well now you did, please step down from the podium."

"You should all be put in sacks and drowned, jerks."

"Excellent. Now all the candidates have given their speeches. Now it's time to call the election committee together!"

"COMMITTEE!?" Oris shouted. "Oh you've got to be kidding me… by all rights, we don't even have to hold an election."

"Yeah, but it's more interesting."

"By the gods… fine, then I, N'lsrath Oris'ee, do hereby call this committee to order… there, happy!?"

"Very good."

"Finally, let's vote."

"Right. Right after we set up the laws and regulations for voting."

"Oh my gods… very well, How long might this take?"

Three Weeks Later…

Phaetreor spoke up, "We have finally set up the voting regulations, as well as our newly made Constitution of New Deadland. So, let's get the voting started." Oris rubbed his temples harshly. "At last, we can…" Phaetreor cut in, "Right after we set up a voting booth and get the rest of the army… or what's left of it, together."

"Why do we even need to set up a booth?"

"So I can think about my choices."

"Why, there are only two candidates and we're all obviously biased against my only opponent."

"I just don't feel comfortable with allowing my peers to see my selection, whatever it may be."

"GODS DAMNIT, THERE'S ONLY 4 OTHER PEOPLE HERE!!" Oris smashed his fist to the back of Phaetreor's head. "OW! What's your problem!?"

"Damn, that was supposed to knock you out." Three other Elites, one green, the other two, blue, came from downstairs. "Oh, great. The gang's all here," Oris sighed. The green elite, Lieutenant Ambassador Vultramay Setamee, stood confused. "What's going on here?"

"We're having an election!" Grundai shouted proudly. "Election for what?" Vultramay said, a little bothered by the news. "For commander of the base!"

"Oh. Okay then, continue."

"We were just about to begin voting until Oris bashed me on the skull for no reason, then you three showed up. Anyways, let's set up the booth."

"This better be quick." Oris said, angered beyond imagination.

Another week later.

"Now we can vote." Oris growled slightly. "AND?"

"Oh no, that's it." Phaetreor said with a smile. "Oh. Okay then."

"Now, if everyone will form a line behind the polls we can begin. Since I coordinated the election, I will go first."

And yet another two weeks later.

"Okay, I'm done, now the rest of you may vote."

"Oh my gods, I swear I will demote you down so fast when I become commander…" Oris grunted. "Now it's my turn." Each Elite stepped into the voting booth and wrote their decisions down.

"Okay, the results are in, and by a landslide of 7 to 1 votes, Oris is the new leader." Everyone except Reystema cheered. "And now, if you will Oris, as our new commander, you have to give us another speech!"

"Very well. I solemnly swear that once we tear down this god damn voting booth and finish the inauguration, I'm going to kill all of you. Slowly."


	3. Ch 3: Newbies

SLAYER

The HALO Chronicles

Chapter 3

The sun broke through over the horizon and rose swiftly as another day began anew. The port was empty as always and nothing new was happening for the lonely three UNSC Spartans. Jefferson lay in his sleep chamber when he heard a heavy roaring outside the base. He immediately woke up and ran out. As the roaring got louder, the ground shook slightly.

"EARTHQUAKE! INVASION! EVER' MAN FUR 'IMSELF!" Cookie screamed as he leaped out of his sleep changer and grabbed his M7 Sub-Machine Gun and ran outside screaming. Doc grunted and lazily lifted himself out of his sleep chamber. He wasn't even phased in the slightest by the constant rumbling and roaring and Cookie's belligerent screaming. He simply got up and walked outside, annoyed from being woken up early.

The sun was barely shining through the dark sky that was only recently completely black. It was creeping up along the sky but was blocked by the smog and filth that was exuding from the industrial zones all around New Mombasa. Yet through all of the scum and pollution, there was still a surprising peacefulness and beauty that lay in between the layers of filth. The serenity of dawn was soon pierced as three D77-TC "Pelican" Drop-ships sped through the air at high speeds, their engines roaring like that of a high-speed race-car. The Pelicans arrived at a tall building near the edge of the empty harbor. They swung around the building twice at low speeds, sending the obnoxious roar of the engines in different directions. They ceased their circling and hovered over to a large circular ring-like monument that stood atop the edge of the harbor wall. As the three Pelicans touched down, the ground shook violently from the force of the propulsion-jets thrusting down upon the dirt, filling the already dirty air with a heavy cloud of dirt. There were two loud thuds on the ground inside the dirt cloud and a few grunts, and "Oo-rah!"s.

Jefferson stopped and stared at the large cloud of dirt, and Doc followed shortly after. They could barely even see the tops of the Pelicans themselves until they lifted off the grounds and began their journey back to the UNSC Command. Cookie soon followed Jefferson out of the base, screaming horrendously and shooting blindly into the air, startled by the sudden loud roaring and rumbling. Jefferson, still somewhat exhausted from the abrupt wake-up, stopped in his place and lurched over. His head was swimming with a plethora of thoughts, almost all of them centered on sleeping when all of a sudden, Cookie slammed right into him. They tumbled to the ground, flailing in a rage. Jefferson jumped up and tapped his head to wake himself from his trance.

"Cookie, you idiot! I told you not to knock me over when I'm in a transitional period! There are only two times when you can knock me over: When I'm being shot at, and when I eat anything sweet and smothered in chocolate."

"Yes, sir," Cookie said. The cloud of dust was slowly reducing. Jefferson was startled by what lay before him. There was a warthog, six soldiers and a droid. Jefferson's jaw dropped. The six soldiers walked towards him. One of the soldiers on the left, clad in cobalt-teal MJOLNIR Mark IV armor walked towards him.

"Uh… hi. Um… is this Spartan Outpost Headlong?" There wasn't any response. Jefferson stood there with that plain, blank reflection from his helmet's visor. "Hello? Anybody home?" The cobalt soldier tapped Jefferson's helmet.

"What… the… hell…" Jefferson said hotly. "Where's the shotgun, rocket launchers, sniper rifles, gauss warthog, Scorpion, SMGs, 14 magnums, and the god damned longsword fighter I ordered!?" He screamed.

"Now how did _you_ memorize that?" Doc joked.

"Shut it, Doc!"

"Excuse me, shouting won't solve anything," the stranger commented.

"What's your name, son? You'll speak with respect when addressing your commanding officers! Wait… what rank are you?"

"Sergeant."

"Ha! I outrank you! Lieutenant! In your face!"

"You sure do seem a little uppy and… immature for a lieutenant."

"Well, um… that's just genetics, anyway, Cookie, commence ass-kissing!" Jefferson ordered. "You are an excellent leader, strategist, and the most handsome man anyone has ever laid eyes on!" Cookie saluted. "And don't you ever speak to Lieutenant Jefferson that way again!" He added.

"Good man," Jefferson applauded.

"Now listen up!" Jefferson shouted to the squad of six new soldiers. "I want you all to line up against that wall," he pointed to the wall of the nearest building, "and Sergeant Charlie over here will come over and ask you your… um…"

"Name." Doc sighed.

"Yes, your name! Right. As well as your rank, position, etc. The floor's all yours, Cookie." Cookie stepped up in front of the squad.

"Uh. Hi. I'm Charlie. McPeterson. I'ma… um… Sarge Major... you can… uh… call me Cookie. Um… yeah. Not much else. I cook. I make some purty good ham sandwiches… um… that's 'bout it, y'all. So um… I'ma gon' come 'round and ask you your name 'n stuff." He hastily rushed up to the cobalt soldier first. "Um… name?"

"Spartan-093, Gunnery Sergeant Wilson "Will" Atlas, sir. I have served 11 years with the United Nations Space Command and have fought valiantly at the Second Battle of Harvest with Spartan Group Omega and the infamous Green Squad at the Battle of Reach."

"Green Squad? Why infamous?"

"Well, no one's really ever heard of us because our squad was thought to be cursed. The first account of bad luck, it was early morning and my squad and I were in the middle of a heated skirmish against the Elites. Then in the heat of battle, some idiot activated a plasma grenade and didn't count correctly. He killed two of our squad mates. Then some other guy took a welding torch and accidentally seared right through his and a squad-mates armor while trying to repair a Hornet, and then flung the torch right into my Captain's face while writhing in pain on the ground. Finally, the remaining two in our squad besides me were sent on a Reconnaissance mission to take a couple of Banshees and spy on the Covenant forces."

"An' how'd that go?"

"One of 'em took one of the Banshee and crashed himself and the other guy into the wall. The Banshee's explosion disintegrated them both, as well as a couple of expendable crew-members. I was demoted from Sergeant to Private just for being part of that squad, and yet I never even did anything. That's why I've been in the military for so long."

"Man, that really friggin' blows."

"Yeah, well, I suppose I don't have anything better to do." There was a silence for a moment. "Um… what's your specialty?" Cookie asked.

"I'm an expert demolitionist. It's actually kind of strange, all my life in the military, I've never actually had to blow something up. It's quite sad, actually."

"Well, perhaps I can find somethin' for you to do…" Cookie said deviously. Will shrugged and Cookie walked on to the next soldier. A tall and bulky figure with orange Mark IV armor stood tall in front of Cookie.

"Name?" Cookie asked.

"Laddamer, sir. Tom Laddamer." The man had a heavy Australian accent. "I'm a PFC, yeah? Vehicula' expert, an' awarded 2 medals for service in the UNSC. Vehicles are my thing: good at fixin' 'em, good at killin' 'em. Never missed one in my life. Eva'." Cookie was a tad scared by the Australian. He backed away slowly.

"Er… excellent, welcum 'board," he stammered. Cookie side-stepped to the third soldier who was in a gold Mark IV suit.

"Hello sir, my name is Richard Hocus, a pleasure, I'm sure." He extended his hand to Cookie. Cookie eagerly grabbed the man's hand and shook gently.

"Nice t' meet'cha," he said.

"I'm your new hand-to-hand expert, I've been with the United Nations Space Command Marine Corps for over 4 years and I've served in the Navy for 2."

"What's your rank?"

"Private."

"Wait… why do you have painted armor? Only PFCs and above are allow'd t' paint their armor."

"Because, I'm a specialist. I have privileges. Besides, anyone who wants to try and say otherwise is gonna wake up missing a couple of teeth and possible an arm." Like lightning, he pulled out a knife and an energy sword and immediately sliced through the wall next to him. Cookie stared at the slash, distracted, and turned back to Hocus with the knife at his neck. "See? Cool, huh? It's interesting and surprising to see how distracted people get all the time."

"So you ain't gonna kill me?"

"Oh, heavens no! I only kill superior officers on Wednesdays. Tuesdays if I'm in a good mood. It's Thursday, so you're a day safe. For now anyways." Cookie gulped. "Well, nice meeting you, sir!" Hocus saluted Cookie and stepped in line. Cookie then moved on to the next soldier. There was nothing special about this particular unit. No emblem, no color, and no armor permutations. This was clearly a trainee.

"G'day," the Private said. "As you're well aware, I'm a new recruit."

"What t'hell you doin' 'ere? New recruits usually go to Basic."

"Huh? Oh, right. Command said that this outpost was pretty Basic." Cookie rubbed the back of his head, knowing what Command thought of them.

"Eh, figures…" Cookie shrugged. "What good'ya think we gonna do ya?"

"Well, they said that most all of you are specialists and/or hardened soldiers, so Command said I could learn a thing or two from you guys. Name's Alan Warsaw by the way. Fresh out of enlistment. You guys are the first Spartans I've come into contact with, besides me and these other guys of course."

"Well, welcome to the Marine Corps, I'm sure you'll do fine. Now drop down and give me 300!"

"Right now sir? But I'm exhausted!"

"Hey, recruits aren't allowed to whine until after 10 P.M.! You can't be a sissie 'til you seen a real fight. Besides, you're doin' it all wrong. This is how you whine in the military," Cookie ran over to Jefferson, who was conversing with Doc.

"So I was in the lab the other day, working with the Chem equipment, when all of the sudden, Cookie grabbed…" Doc was just about to finish the sentence when Cookie came barging into the conversation.

"Doc, I…"

"Look, Cookie, I already told you, I'm not letting you make moonshine with the Chem equipment!"

"No, Doc, I…"

"And I am NOT giving you anymore morphine, I have no idea what the hell you do with that anyhow."

"No, I was just gonna say… I don't _wanna_ do this no more!? You go do it ya' big meanie! I wanna go home an' sleep! Why do I have to work in the army?"

"That's some quality whining, Sergeant."

"Thank you sir." Cookie walked back to Warsaw. "That's how you do it."

"Uh-huh. Right."

"Did I give you permission to talk? And where are those push-ups?" He thrust the recruit to the ground. "Remember, Down-Up, 1! Got it?" Warsaw gave a muffled "yes, sir." "Excellent." Cookie then moved on to a soldier that appeared to be drunk at first glance. He was hunched over, and said nothing. He was painted white. This was no ordinary soldier, it was a combat droid. Cookie tapped the droid's shoulder and he jumped to life.

"Greetings, meat-bag… er… ERROR… I mean, greetings, sentient. I am Combat-Protocol Processing Unit No. 200/109, M2551 Version 4.0. However, you may alternately call me 'Dell'."

"Well, pleasure to meet'cha, D…"

"You'll speak when you're addressed, you filthy worm! Oh my, I'm terribly sorry. I have no idea what has come over me. I am an emotionless drone after all."

"Um… alright, no hard feelin's… I guess. How many languages you fluent in?"

"Why, I am fluent in over 8,000 languages, however most of them are dead…"

"Like what?"

"Eh… I can't recall what it's called…"

"Do you understand French?

"Well yes, but it's meaningless."

"Why? It's French."

"Ah, yes, but French has been dead for about 210 years, remember the Amer-Euro-Aussie-Asian war? Those poor meat-bags were as dead as fried chicken."

"Oh yeah… poor bastards. I forgot, what is it called now?"

"L'Amèrica _Deux_."

"Crazy gibberish!" Cookie then walked back to Jefferson, but turned back. He remembered, there were six figures, one was missing. Cookie walked back to the group and searched for the sixth man. He heard footsteps coming from around the side of the building. He took his SMG and slowly stepped towards the wall, as he was about to turn the corner, a hand grabbed him by the helmet and pulled him into the shadows of a nearby alley.

"Get the hell of me, damnit!" Cookie screamed.

"Shhh…. Cookie, calm down! It's me!" The man dropped him to the ground. His voice was _awfully_ high for a man's. He turned to look at him. The soldier was a Spartan, same as Cookie with pink armor, and was holding a 99D-S2 Sniper Rifle. He was slimmer and shorter than himself and the rest of the Spartan's.

"I don't know who you are. Well I sure as hell ain't ever seen you a'fore. You gay?"

"No, Cookie! It's me, Savannah!"


End file.
